


For You To Notice

by lookingforatardis



Series: find your way back [3]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Confessions, Getting Back Together, Longing, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 07:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16656634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: Elio's POV to "this ruined puzzle." Read that first!!!! (Chapter 1 correlates with trp ch. 8) Read chapter notes for more context





	For You To Notice

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, here we are at long last. It's been awhile since I've really dug into an Elio pov. Song choice is by Dashboard Confessional again, and I highly encourage you to at least read the lyrics. As I said, this chapter is the companion piece to chapter 8 in this ruined puzzle, and a parallel story to chapter 1 of Vindicated. 
> 
> Elio is a tricky one. He's got a lot happening in his mind with this. Thank you to everyone reading this fic, and the other two for that matter. You mean the world to me and make this such an enjoyable experience as a writer!
> 
> ALSO! This is book!verse, meaning Oliver came to visit that christmas after the summer and they lost contact awhile after the wedding.

"They were really good." Sam's eyes are unsure as he meets mine, but something behind the look is almost fond and it gives me hope after our conversation earlier. "Really," I insist, "It was very nice." I can't stop the laughter on my tongue any more than he can stop his eyes from narrowing it seems, but it's comfortable in a way we typically aren't. He shakes his head and I make a note to encourage him to get a haircut soon, the ends curling up around his ears. He probably wanted it that way, though.

Carly's arms wrap around his neck tightly when she meets us, already talking our ears off about everyone's mistakes. I try to compliment her, but it's nearly impossible. Her mother nods at me from across the room and I smile back in acknowledgement, hoping she wouldn't approach. Carly and her mother as a combination was like oil and water, and as much as Sam and I struggled to find balance, it was nothing compared to the venom in the way those two interacted, even with everything that had happened. Nothing seems to be getting Carly down now, though, her energy lighter than ever. It’s a feeling I’m all too familiar with, the high of performing, of being seen and heard, of hitting each note with precision and finesse. It’s a relief to see her in her element; she so often seemed worn down by the world, especially lately. I try not to contemplate the state of our city as of late, of the terror and pain that emanated from every soul on the streets after the attack. Carly had a close call, her father just barely escaping the building. She hadn’t been the same since. To see her now, all smiles, hanging over the attention she’s granted, fills me with hope. Sam seems surprised when I bring her shift in demeanor up. Does he really not think I care, that I don't pay attention to anything he says, does, feels?

Sam's name is called, and I am immediately nervous at the prospect of meeting his friends, an unfamiliar feeling to say the least. I'd grown up around strangers, developed my sense of self in the midst of the varied ideals brought to dinner table, a confidence stemming from holding my own, chitchat with those much older second nature. I take a deep breath as they emerge and the world as I know it slows to a near halt, their light hair and bone structure almost familiar, the younger one's blueish gray eyes startling as he turns to look at someone over his shoulder. My eyes follow his—

He is in front of me, after all this time, without so much as a curtesy warning. How many years had it been? How many lifetimes? He is the same, older but the same, his glass shattering at the ground, his eyes still as blue as I’d dreamt, body firm, skin smooth, hair styled. He hadn't changed, hadn't so much as breathed since he was last in my bed, my arms, my heart. In an instant, I think of the music Sam had been listening to, the books he was reading, his sudden interest in my father's notes. Of course it would be Oliver my son had attached himself to, of course it would be the only man I've ever loved that appeared and pieced my son's life together when I couldn't. Of course. _Mr. Z._ Of course. "Zimmerman," I must sigh, putting it together at last.

I want to know if he tastes the same, if the press of his fingers against the softened edges of my hips would elicit the same bruising response, if my skin would alter itself to his hands the way it once did. He must see it in my eyes, the memories. I'd somehow forgotten the lightness of his wrists and way his veins lifted slightly when he made a fist, the skin exposing him, forcing his vulnerability in a very human way I craved endlessly. I'd forgotten the smell of his skin when it hasn't been washed; I'd never wanted it more. Without explanation, things resume at full speed as Sam calls me, though I can't bring myself to look away from the man I once called my own.

"You have a son?" His voice, it floods me with memories now of a simpler time when my biggest concern was the color of his swimming trunks, his voice now red as I recalled, tense, his uncertainty cloaked by overconfidence and haste. I flinch. The day my father told me he was expecting his second son, I'd almost called to tell him. I had his phone number in my hand, Sam in the crook of my arm napping, every intention of dialing the phone number and waiting for his voice to bring me back to our bedroom once more, to the nights we'd confessed our anxieties about one day growing up and having families of our own, of his quiet admission he'd wanted children, of my uncertainty. She'd interrupted, and I never returned to the phone to call, the moment of weakness passing as I imagined him with his wife instead. I wonder now what would have changed if I'd only called. He sounds pained, something I might have avoided back then. Yet, I can't bring myself to regret any of it. This is what it feels like, I want to tell him. This is what it feels like to have the rug pulled out from under you.

Sam calls me again and I break away from Oliver's eyes to look at him. I know he must know, must understand that something is happening that is beyond his control, beyond my own, especially after our talk. Fate had stepped in, my father would have said. Fate had had enough of my avoidance. Cruel. The mere thought of my father, of what he would make of this, makes it impossibly more difficult to come to terms with the facts.

Oliver is here.

Our sons are friends.

 _Oliver_ has been the stabilizing force in son's life.

I have missed him more than I have allowed myself to admit.

I don't notice it at first, the blood. I see my son scramble and feel my face go slightly numb before the first rush of something warm hits my upper lip. I cover myself, curse under my breath, and turn quickly, all the while avoiding him and hoping to God he doesn't follow, listening for his footsteps despite myself.

I walk through the doors and immediately realize my mistake. I look both ways down the halls and try to contain the tightness in my chest when seeing a group of parents staring down the hall when his hand touches me, startling, burning, the mere collision of our bodies one I dared not truly consider until now, until his handprint echoes on my skin, reverberating in my entire being until there is nothing left but the sharp desire to take it all back, every second, every kiss, every night I almost called. I want to exist in his arms, want to stop existing entirely.

"Bathroom's this way," he motions, eyes and lips tight. I try to stave off the bleeding and follow helplessly, knowing I have no other option and that, even if I had another, my body would still choose to follow his down any path. He opens the door for me and I waste no time in rushing to the sinks to rid myself of the blood pooling between my palms and nose. Adrenaline pumps through my veins when I hear the lock click into place. We are alone for the first time since the night he laid in my bed and confessed he was getting married. I swallow hard and try to will the blood away, hold off the shaking of my hands, tell him in some emphatic yet silent way that I can't do this right now, with him so near, with his aftershave growing nearer still, with his voice and his eyes and a thousand memories I'd sworn off with time. "Elio—"

"Don't." My voice is curt, but I can't take it back. "Please don't." I can't bear the sound of your voice, Oliver, can't possibly take the way my name sounds on your lips when it was all I craved for so long. Suddenly, he's at my side, his heat rolling off in waves that threaten to overwhelm me. I don't trust myself with how close he's become, but my feeble attempts at keeping him at arms-length only seem to spur him on.

"Elio, for God's sake. Let me help you!" My body jolts when his hand falls harsh against the sink, his frustration becoming mine until all I can think of is the way his hands once found my body to sooth away the tension when my nose bled that summer. I nod quickly, allowing him this one instance of intimacy against my better judgement.

His hands are warm when they cover me, the one in my hair nearly causing me to moan as my hands fall limp and grip the sink for stability. Those fingers have taken me apart more times than I can count, his tender touch one I thought I'd almost forgotten. I lean into it, forgetting the letters he didn't reply to or the phone calls never returned, and allow one fleeting daydream to take over where he pulls me apart once more.

How can one body recognize another so specifically, as if to say, yes, there you are, my long lost hand, lost fingers, lost eyes, nose, chest, legs?

"Think I'm okay." I'm surprised my voice doesn't shake as I touch his hand, pull it away from me. Oliver hands, I think. Dear Oliver hands. I stare at them as I double check my nose.

"You have a son." His voice is bruised. " _Elio_." There it is again, like a jolt of electricity.

"Don't say my name," I beg him. "I can't handle you saying my name right now." Every time he speaks, I am reminded of another name he would call me, a name I've never been called since, one I'd missed terribly. Silence falls around us just long enough for my own memories to begin haunting me.

"I wish I'd known," he says quietly. I think again of the night I'd almost called, of the nights when my father couldn't answer the phone, when I was alone.

"I'm sorry. I didn't, I didn't want you to know." It's the truth, and yet it's a terrible lie. Of course I wanted you to know, I want to tell him. I wanted our sons to know one another as they do now, wanted you to hold him, to watch him grow as I’d watch your own. I wanted all of this, I wanted everything, with you.

"Why? He's practically my sons' age, I could have—" I can't bear the thought of his thoughts mirroring mine.

"I didn't want your help." I look up to stop him from asking further questions, but find it is my breath that stutters out, my mind that goes blank. I watch his face carefully, searching for signs of disappointment, my stomach turning when it appears in his eyes like the light of day. He's less hidden than he was in our youth, or perhaps my mind has held onto the secrets of his expressions long enough to grant me this small insight. He's hurt, and it's my doing. I try to remember this would never have happened if he'd only replied to my letters, if he'd only stayed, if only he had found the courage to call me and hear my voice on occasion. It wasn't my choice to stop speaking, after all; it was only my choice not to break his silence when Sam was born. I tell myself all of this, and yet it does nothing to stop the guilt from forming in my stomach. I could have called.

"Why?"

"Because," I fumble. My seventeen-year-old body returns to me, hiding behind words. He repeats it back and I soar despite myself. He's playing with me, toying with my words like he once did, taking them into his mouth and using them as his own. I always loved it when he did this, some assumed intimacy I never realized I'd granted him but craved nevertheless. _"Because_ ," I say again. Do you know, Oliver, that I'm playing, too? Do you know that your words are still mine and if you were to give me a phrase, any phrase, I'd repeat it until you begged me to stop, until my voice was your voice and your mind mine? He stares blankly, reality and time covering us. "I just couldn't," I tell him honestly. "I couldn't face you." _Because to face you is to give into you_. I glance up and see him watching me, boldness growing in my chest. "If I told you, then you would have wanted to talk more and more and," I shake my head. At seventeen I didn't know how many breaks my heart could take, and at 21 with a new son, I was still unsure I’d have the strength to recover from his rejection again.

"You never forgave me." And there it is, the words he'd been sitting on for god knows how long, the singular truth I'd feared would be thrown like an accusation. I shrug to avoid my voice, but it becomes apparent he won't fill the silence. In the absence of sound, I allow myself one moment of weakness to stare at his body, to trace with my eyes the curves still memorized by my own in the dead of night, his elbows where my head once laid, chest as broad as I remember. I wonder idly if he still had definition under the shirt he wore, if it would be as sturdy under my palms as it once was, or would it be softer, more like a pillow? His palms rub against his legs and I am reminded of our summer, when it was my hands and his bare skin, my nails leaving reminders against the blond hairs of his inner thighs on nights he allowed me to do whatever I wanted.

"What's there to forgive?" I ask quietly, glancing at his ring. "You fell in love." I turn to leave but walk slowly. Stop me, I want to say. Stop me and stop this and turn back the clock so—

"Wait." His voice is tense, one hand blocking the door's lock as the other presses into my spine, his fingers drawing the breath from my lungs as his hand moves down my back so slowly I fear I may imagine it entirely. His breath is warm and wine soaked against my neck, and though I try to stop myself from shivering, I can't. "Oliver," he whispers, not fair at all. I want to _hate_ him for what he does to me, for the way my body still responds, collapsing in on itself and threatening to topple over when it's no longer fingers on my spine, but his palm pressing in, slipping up my back, reminding me I have always been part of his body and he a part of mine.

What are you doing to me, Oliver? Why ignite something when the story hasn't changed, when you've let so many years pass without a word? Why touch me with this sudden purpose when your hands have only ghosted my body for years?

His hand stops when it reaches my neck, the skin to skin contact burning me and, much to my embarrassment, causing my body to react much the way it did back then, everything becoming alive in a second as if I were a virgin once again, my ears ringing, body pulling itself apart to feel everything at once. It's gone before I can ask him to touch me more, his body stepping away from mine. I wonder if he was burned as well, if the mere brush of his fingers against the base of my neck had been too much for him as it had been for me. "I'm sorry," he says. Sorry for his touch? For leaving? For marrying?

I turn and lean my back against the door to stare at him some more. The air is thick and I resent him for the days we've spent in silence, for every time Sam lashed out at me and I had no one to reach out to when he was so close all along. If only he hadn't left, if only he had invited me to the wedding, if only he had called more, written back, spoken up.

If only I had told him how much he meant to me.

To use his name as my own now, after all this time. To touch me, and _feel_ me in this way, without so much as a nod in my direction for over a decade, felt like a betrayal. And yet, knowing full well how ruined he’d left me, I want him all the same. It terrifies me.

I unlock the door without another word and he lets me go. It shouldn't surprise me that he'd allow me to slip away again. I don't even notice him following until it's too late, until I can feel him close to my body, until his voice is in my ears, turning me to face him. Ruin their friendship? What about _ours_? What about _us_ , Oliver? Have you given up again? I should beg him to touch me, to allow his fingers to graze my skin once more, only this time don’t let me stop you, I’d say. It would all fade until there would only be you and I, Oliver, just us in this room with your hands on my skin and a lifetime to make up for.

Maybe it was the way he looked at me, maybe it was the careful distance he gave us, or maybe it was my own anxiety of letting him in again with each second that passed in silence, but I couldn't bring myself to say any of this before walking away, taking fate into my own hands and making the choice to end this moment and gain some necessary space.

**Author's Note:**

> Now that Elio is caught up... time for some plot development! Look for the next update in this ruined puzzle :)


End file.
